Then he saw her coming out from under the blanket that covered the cave mouth. She stood there a moment and he knew it was she but he could not see what she was doing. He whistled a low whistle and she was still at the cave mouth doing something in the darkness of the rock shadow. Then she came running, carrying something in her hands and he saw her running long-legged through the snow. Then she was kneeling by the robe, her head pushed hard against him, slapping snow from her feet. She kissed him and handed him her bundle.
“Put it with thy pillow,” she said. “I took these off there to save time.”
“You came barefoot through the snow?”
“Yes,” she said, “and wearing only my wedding shirt.”
He held her close and tight in his arms and she rubbed her head against his chin.
“Avoid the feet,” she said. “They are very cold, Roberto.”
“Put them here and warm them.”
“Nay,” she said. “They will warm quickly. But say quickly now that you love me.”
“I love thee.”
“Good. Good. Good.”
“I love thee, little rabbit.”
“Do you love my wedding shirt?”
“It is the same one as always.”
“Yes. As last night. It is my wedding shirt.”
“Put thy feet here.”
“Nay, that would be abusive. They will warm of themselves. They are warm to me. It is only that the snow has made them cold toward thee. Say it again.”
“I love thee, my little rabbit.”
“I love thee, too, and I am thy wife.”
“Were they asleep?”
“No,” she said. “But I could support it no longer. And what importance has it?”
“None,” he said, and felt her against him, slim and long and warmly lovely. “No other thing has importance.”
“Put thy hand on my head,” she said, “and then let me see if I can kiss thee.
“Was it well?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “Take off thy wedding shirt.”
“You think I should?”
“Yes, if thou wilt not be cold.”
“Qué va, cold. I am on fire.”
“I, too. But afterwards thou wilt not be cold?”
“No. Afterwards we will be as one animal of the forest and be so close that neither one can tell that one of us is one and not the other. Can you not feel my heart be your heart?”
“Yes. There is no difference.”
“Now, feel. I am thee and thou art me and all of one is the other. And I love thee, oh, I love thee so. Are you not truly one? Canst thou not feel it?”
“Yes,” he said. “It is true.”
“And feel now. Thou hast no heart but mine.”
“Nor any other legs, nor feet, nor of the body.”
“But we are different,” she said. “I would have us exactly the same.”
“You do not mean that.”
“Yes I do. I do. That is a thing I had to tell thee.”
“You do not mean that.”
“Perhaps I do not,” she said speaking softly with her lips against his shoulder. “But I wished to say it. Since we are different I am glad that thou art Roberto and I Maria. But if thou should ever wish to change I would be glad to change. I would be thee because I love thee so.”
“I do not wish to change. It is better to be one and each one to be the one he is.”
“But we will be one now and there will never be a separate one.” Then she said, “I will be thee when thou are not there. Oh, I love thee so and I must care well for thee.”
“Maria.”
“Yes.”
“Maria.”
“Yes.”
“Maria.”
“Oh, yes. Please.”
“Art thou not cold?”
“Oh, no. Pull the robe over thy shoulders.”
“Maria.”
“I cannot speak.”
“Oh, Maria. Maria. Maria.”
Then afterwards, close, with the night cold outside, in the long warmth of the robe, her head touching his cheek, she lay quiet and happy against him and then said softly, “And thou?”
“Como tu,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “But it was not as this afternoon.”
“No.”
“But I loved it more. One does not need to die.”
“Ojala no,” he said. “I hope not.”